


Crusts

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen, Humor, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There it is,” Spike snapped. “Enter the sodding drama queen.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crusts

Counting until your anger dissipated didn’t work when you were a vampire. It was the eternal thing, really, and counting seconds just brought home how little seconds really meant. Same with holding your breath until you turned blue—a little on the silly side, to a vampire who didn’t breathe.

That didn’t stop either Angel or Spike from trying. Both. Respectively.

“There it is,” Spike snapped. “Enter the sodding drama queen.”

“Drama queen?” Angel forgot to hold his breath in favor of expelling it, forcefully and angrily. “You’re calling _me_ a drama queen.”

“Uh, the shoe seems to be fitting, Angelus. Did you actually think you’d turn blue? Or that I’d _care_ that your great overbaked head was about to explode?” Snorting—totally not the same way Angel did—Spike threw himself back onto the sofa and lit a cigarette.

“Spike. No. Smoking. In. My. Office.”

“Gonna wear those teeth down to nothing with all that grinding. And your precious humans aren’t here to get second-hand whatever, so I’m _going_ to smoke.” Around the filter, he added quietly, “Or I’m going to hit you until you whimper.”

That, unfortunately, was the wrong thing to say. Pissed-off Angel evaporated into condescending Angel who smiled fatuously as he took the chair behind his desk. “Oh, no,” he purred, crossing his feet against the waxed mahogany, patent leather not quite as glowy. “That’s _you_ that whimpers, Spike. Especially when I slide in all slow and—”

“Not the sodding point!” Along with the not-turning-blue, not blushing was a vampire staple, Spike was fervently glad. “The _point_ you imbecilic wanker, is that it doesn’t have to be cold!”

Oh, right, the reason for the argument. Angel looked surprised at the reminder, then quickly yanked his mind back to the spat at hand. “Do you know how to _read_? It has to be cold. It’s a chemical reaction.”

“Right, cause a hundred odd years ago when refrigerators were as popular as flying fucking _cars_ , nobody made the damned things because they couldn’t get the water cold enough. Nice try, Angelus, but _eeehhhh_ , you lose. Thanks for playing, I’ve got a lovely parting gift right here.” Spike raised his fist and shook it menacingly.

Angel momentarily wanted to laugh. It was comical, the way Spike’s duster slipped back revealing bare forearms—absurdly skinny next to his _big head_ —since Spike had stopped wearing those silly silk red shirts but kept the sillier black t-shirts. But laughter never remained for long. There was pummeling to do, although Angel promised to keep his verbal. “I’m talking about _science_ , Spike. Numbers and logic, two things you were always abysmally bad at, boy. There’s a chemical reaction and—”

“Oi! Which of us watches Alton Brown more, bog-trotter? Yeah, it’s gotta not be _warm_ , but for christ’s sake, it doesn’t have to be cold enough to freeze off your tiny little pecker! Better yet, yeah, make it that cold. When it doesn’t stretch out right because it’s _too sodding cold_ , I’ll what’s left to castrate you.”

Verbal. Verbal, verbal, ver—fuck it. With a growl, Angel stood up and prepared to launch himself across his office—only to stop, and manage to fall face-first onto his desk when the door opened and Wesley and Fred poked their head into the office.

“Is everything all right?” Wesley asked calmly.

Angel slowly picked himself up, removing the stapler that was trying to imprint itself on his forehead, and ignored Spike’s hysterical laughter. “We’re fine, Wes. Just having a bit of, um, discussion.”

“Er. Yes. One that can be heard three floors away. Anyway, since the two of you have been going at this for the last two hours and _some_ of us need to work, I thought I’d bring in an expert.”

Wesley gestured, and Fred tried very hard not to laugh as she surveyed both vampires. “Spike’s right,” she drawled, slow in an attempt to cover the tremble of amusement. “If it’s warm, it won’t gel right, but if it’s too cold—and Angel, I’m real sorry, but adding ice to it makes it too cold—then it won’t flake right when you heat it up later.”

“There now.” Wesley had to unclamp his teeth from his lip to say it, but he’d been practicing his ability to act in the face of the two chi—er, vampires, he had to take care of, and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t break out into giggles until he was down the hall a fair way. “You have an answer from not only a scientist, but a woman’s whose skills you had both better not be disparaging. Or you won’t get seconds, next time. May we go back to doing our jobs now?”

They were halfway down the hall when they heard, “Gonna say Fred _and_ Julia Childs are wrong, then? Just deal with the fact that I know how to bake up a better, flakier pie crust than you and move on!”

“You don’t have the _patience_ to cook, Spike!”

“Is that a challenge, wanker, cause I’m always up for a chance to kick your arse. Again. Rematch in the kitchens?”

They were too close, but neither could help it. Fred and Wes collapsed against the walls, laughing until they cried.

“WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU!!!!!!”


End file.
